That Boss Of Mine. Elizabeth Bevarly
surviving, er, rather, enjoying it.
And in some ways, by that second day of week two, things were already starting to level off—hey, that coffee-spilling incident of the day before could have happened to anybody. In spite of her lack of skills where machinery was concerned—and she worked on those by simply avoiding what office machinery she could—Audrey had people capabilities that were way above average.
So she had focused on those talents instead, had spent much of her time last week contacting what was left of Mr. Rush’s client base to update their files and put a few feelers out as to what they were looking for in a design company. She told herself that was probably something her employer would want to do himself, but he had so many other things on his mind, the last thing Audrey wanted to do was make him rehash everything for her.
So she had spoken to his clients herself, to find out what kind of people and businesses they were and what they were looking for in a commercial design company, had chatted amiably about life in general, and had reassured them that Rush Commercial Designs, Inc., was well into recovery and going like gangbusters. As a result, she’d started feeling a little bit like she was a part of the company herself.
And she’d discovered pretty quickly what a nice feeling that was. None of her other jobs had ever made her feel like she was contributing much of anything. None of them had made her feel as if she were necessary. But Mr. Rush was a man in obvious need of help, and Audrey was, by nature, a very helpful person. Plus, when it came to being down on your luck, she knew all the right moves. She was confident, if of nothing else, that she could make a difference here.
And even after only one week of trying, she was already feeling as if she had.
“Good morning, Miss Finnegan.”
She glanced up from her desk to see Mr. Rush striding through the door, carrying, as he was every morning, a huge cup of coffee, which she just couldn’t understand, because she always had a fresh pot waiting for him when he came in.
“Good morning, Mr. Rush,” she replied cheerily. “Good to see you made it in before the rain.”
He arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Is it supposed to rain today?”
She gaped at him. “Didn’t you notice the black clouds? The Weather Channel says it’s going to be a real doozy. There’s even a tornado watch.”
He arched his eyebrows in obvious surprise. “No kidding?”
Boy, did he need looking after, Audrey thought with a slow shake of her head. How on earth had he made it this far in life all by himself?
“Fortunately,” she told him, “you don’t have anything scheduled outside the office, so you can stay nice and dry inside.”
He looked crestfallen at the news. “Yes, well, that scarcely comes as a surprise, does it?”
“I don’t know, does it?”
He expelled a soft sound of distress. “Miss Finnegan, please. You don’t have to pretend. I know the business is on its last legs, and it’s only a matter of time before the last of my clients has pulled out on me. So you don’t—”
“Actually, you picked up a couple of new clients last week,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he conceded, “but they’re not exactly huge corporations bulging with expendable income, are they? The projects they’ve commissioned will barely cover the month’s utility bills.”
“They’re brand-new businesses,” she pointed out, “starting on the ground floor. You have the opportunity to send them sky-high. And just think how grateful they’ll be to you when you do. Someday they’ll be huge, prosperous companies, and they’ll be indebted to you.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, as if he hadn’t thought about it like that. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “In any event, they’ve paid me money to do work for them, haven’t they? So I’ll do my best by them.”
He started toward his office, then hesitated, slowing his pace until he had stopped completely in his tracks. For one long moment he only stood there, gazing blindly at a blank spot on the wall. Audrey didn’t say anything to disturb him, as he seemed to have his mind fixed intently on something very important that had nothing to do with the nice shade of mauve there. When he turned to look at her, he was smiling, a tentative, secretive little smile that she found very becoming.
“Hold my calls this morning, will you, Miss Finnegan?” he asked quietly, in a voice that told her he was still quite preoccupied. “I think I have an idea for the new Windsor Deli account.” He nodded slowly, then began to walk toward his office again. “Yeah, I do,” he muttered triumphantly. But he didn’t seem to be talking to Audrey. “I have a really, really good idea.”
When he disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him, she smiled with much satisfaction. See? He really did need her. Even if it was just to be a reassuring presence in his life.
She turned in her chair and eyed the computer terminal on her desk with as much confidence as she could muster. Then, after pushing up the sleeves of her fuchsia sweater, she doubled her fists and held them aloft like a prizefighter.
“Okay,” she said to the machine. “You and me, we’re going to have a little session. I’m going to type some letters, and you’re going to let me do it without beeping or booping or going blank on me. Got it?”
The cursor blinked at her benignly, but the computer uttered not a sound. She nodded victoriously. “Good,” she said.
And, humming “You Were Meant for Me” under her breath, Audrey went to work.
It was amazing, really, Wheeler thought some hours later, what you could do with the germ of an idea. As he gazed at the project on his work table, he smiled with much satisfaction. Damn, he was good. He’d forgotten just how good, over the past few months. He remembered now why he’d gone into this line of work to begin with. Because it was interesting. Because it was fun. Because it was what he did best.
He was coming out of his slump now—he could feel it. He didn’t know why or how it had come about, but Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was about to undergo an upswing. A major upswing. He could feel it. Somehow, he just knew he was on the road to recovery. The two new accounts that had come about last week, even if they were meager, were just the beginning. Best of all, his creativity was back. His brain was functioning again. His talent and skills hadn’t packed up and abandoned him, after all. And now he was ready to recoup the losses he’d suffered.
As if inspired by his optimism, there was a soft rap at Wheeler’s office door that sounded remarkably like opportunity knocking. He smiled at the very idea.
“Yes, Miss Finnegan?” he called out.
The door opened slowly, as if she were being extra careful not to create some debacle that would blow it off its hinges. Thankfully all that happened was that the door got stuck on a bump in the carpet, so she had to shove it a few times—real hard—to get it to open. Unfortunately she wound up putting a bit more effort into her final push than was actually necessary, because the door gave just as her shoulder made contact, an action that resulted in her barreling over the threshold at an alarming speed.
Fortunately—a wild occurrence for her—she recovered herself before she went sprawling onto her knees or into Wheeler—so she ended up only looking a little foolish, and not doing anyone any bodily harm. The bright spots of pink that appeared on her cheeks were almost exactly the same hue as the bright fuchsia outfit she wore—from neck to toe—and he marveled again that when it came to her wardrobe, she was just so terribly...uh...monochromatic. Still, there was a lot to be said for a woman in a hot-pink dress.
“Sorry,” she mumbled after she’d righted herself.
“No problem,” Wheeler replied automatically.
It was, after all, an exchange the two of them shared at least a dozen times daily since her arrival